There was no sky. No ground. No up. No down.
Only an infinite white void—quiet, still, humming faintly like a blank page waiting to be written on.
And in the center of it stood Kei.
Or rather… all versions of Kei.
He saw himself: the fighter, the prisoner, the glitch, the god, the boy. All connected by a single thread—Will.
> [NEUROMANCER OVERRIDE ACTIVE.]
[YOU ARE NO LONGER A CHARACTER.]
[YOU ARE THE AUTHOR.]
Kei blinked—and suddenly the void responded.
A ripple spread out from his feet. Words appeared midair. Sentences folded into existence. Images bloomed like thoughts made real.
His memories became worlds. His regrets became storms. His love, loss, and rage became forces of creation.
He wasn't shaping the world.
He was the world.
And for the first time, he heard everything.
Screams from timeline fragments where wars never ended.
Whispers of prisoners still stuck in frozen moments.
Echoes of himself dying again and again and again—and returning, still human.
His hands trembled. Not from fear. But from knowing: this wasn't power. This was responsibility.
A voice echoed from deep within the Canvas:
> "You wanted freedom. Then write it.
You wanted truth. Then face it.
You wanted everything. Now carry it."
Kei looked at his palm. An ancient pen had formed—twisted, glowing with ethereal ink. Not black, not blue—but a shimmering mix of emotions: guilt, grief, hope, rage, love.
> [INK SOURCE: EMOTION.]
[PAGE MATERIAL: REALITY.]
[AUTHOR'S PRIVILEGE UNLOCKED.]
He took a deep breath and whispered, "Then let's begin."
With the pen, he reached into the void and wrote a single word:
"Remember."
And reality shuddered.
Across timelines, people paused. Prisoners blinked. Guards stopped mid-swing. The Faceless Man, wherever he was, jerked his head. The Null Prime tilted in confusion.
A whisper passed through the Prison of Time.
"Kei remembers us."
The ink pulsed brighter. More words flowed.
He wrote kindness into a broken version of the timeline.
He wrote forgiveness into a future where only vengeance lived.
He rewrote himself—no longer a puppet of fate or system or design.
Kei's eyes burned with meaning.
Not just data. Not just story.
Soul.
And then—he saw it.
Far in the distance of the void, something stirred.
A massive quill. Rusted. Chained. Buried in stone.
> [THE FIRST AUTHOR'S PEN.]
[DO YOU WISH TO CLAIM IT?]
Kei hesitated.
And smiled.
"Not yet," he said. "First… let's fix the broken chapters."
He turned.
The Canvas was no longer empty.
It was a battlefield of stories—all awaiting resolution.
He stepped forward. Ready to write.
Not with control. But with truth.